The city was rotting...

[iamthey]

The city was rotting. He didn’t know how, or why, he couldn’t even recall a time when it had been different. Such was the story of Michael Atrevier, the solitary disciple of his own grandfathers’ collective inadequacy. It had been nearly fifty years since his relative, Thomas Devereaux, had raised the prospect of war in the pacific. At one time, he thought- though this recollection itself vaguely resembled the province of mythology- the world may have actually approached its tipping point: the exact moment when the revitalizing catalyst of war’s general conflagration would have been unleashed. When the utter revolution of crisis could have broken the steady cycle of stability, when progress could have been attained. However this had not been fated, instead the catharsis to this global tension had not come in the form of a cataclysmic break, nor renewing war, but in the steady, slow release accompanying a great power’s decay and its inevitable relegation to a state of irrelevance. The rivalry had been left un-concluded and the ambitions of his own leaders had become dulled by the apathy of their own propaganda, the crushing weight of their bureaucratic gluttony and their sense bourgeoisies privilege. Their failure to act fifty years ago, had set them on the course of reactionary stagnancy and by consequence depression. His own existence he thought- was the product of this degeneration, the petty ambitions of four families aligned by the prospect of marriage and synthesis of a single heir. It was not objection, it was simply contempt, contempt born out of cynicism for the shallow reality that his own elders and supposed role models represented, and the depressing understanding that he was powerless but to play along. This was the lonely isolation of power, and the cage of expectations it traps its bearer within. At present he sat in the rear of a long limousine, a perk of his own status: access to the royal motor pool. The Crown Prince was accompanied only by Marc Stephens, one of the few members of his Grandfather’s administration he had any true respect for. He was of lean athletic build, healthy he always had been, though it was not until after his sixteenth birthday that he had asked the eternally young Archon of the Seraphim to put him through the same conditioning he demanded of his men. He had always been fascinated by the Seraphim, super soldiers, but more importantly the dedication to their purpose: that was what he truly admired. At one point Marc had given him a tour of the project’s medical facility, shown him the nano-surgical chambers, allowed him to view the surgical process. Enthralled, by the concept he asked Stephens to allow him the surgery. Stephens refused, but he did honor the original request and worked with him in terms of dietary and physical conditioning. If he had inherited the pragmatism of his grandfather, then he had also been instilled with a deep respect for purpose, the sanctity of contract, the only true morality if such a thing did indeed exist. It was this sense of dedication that seemed to create the mentality of confident direction behind his piercing blue eyes; a dedication not to any particular cause, not to be virtuous, not even to be a good person, he wasn’t sure what that even meant, but to the underlying sanctity of the obligations he chose to take on, and the duty he held to himself, to affirm his own existence. He sat, legs crossed at the knee, body entirely devoid of hair with exception to his brow line and the hair on his head; both somewhat unconventional though conventionality hardly concerned him. To him it was an external reflection of his underlying divorce with nature, a rejection of his inner savage, or a recognition of the unfeeling and sophisticated rationality that dominated his psychology. He was his own god, and the rules were his to make. Compared to his colleague’s impressive military regalia, the piercing silver adornments on the utterly black dress uniform, the distinct red beret proclaiming his status as a member of the Seraphim, Michael’s were quite unremarkable. Though he considered his own taste impeccable, he understood that the casual form fitting jeans, the black dress shirt, and the kaki trench coat couldn’t meet up to the standard of his friend, and in a way he felt somewhat envious. Of course envy had really come to define the relationship he had with Stephens. What had once been a child’s enthrallment with the status of being among the 10,000, became an obsession with its benefits, longevity, strength, and the general transcendence of his weak human form. Many times he had pressured his grandfather to open up the technologies of Project Seraphim to civilian use, each time he had been dismissed. As they pressed onward into the city he turned his eyes to the window, his gaze was even, objective, but with a flicker of excitement. His friend saw this. “What is it?” Atreiver looked at Stephens and shook his head.

“Look”, he returned his focus, they were passing through the city’s slums. “Why.” He whispered as if confronted with a question of the most profound nature. Marc didn’t respond. “Look at all of them, they're like ants in a farm. Look at the squalor they live in, the abject poverty, it’s like sty.” They passed a small group huddling around a trashcan fire, an elderly emaciated man propped himself up against the wall of a run down building apparently excluded from the circle. He was consigned to the frigid night air- too weak to share in the warmth. “And there-“ He pointed to a public cafeteria under sate administration “the means by which such a life is perpetuated. No other city in the nation has this sort of urban decay. It was never a problem before, now it is. Why?” Stephens wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I wouldn’t know Mike.” Atrevier turned from the window and looked at his friend.

“We know why. They suffer, because of our pleasure. Because of programs like your project seraphim, because I live in a palace, because when the King and the Magistrate respectively expire I will inherit a fortune larger than any one man could ever hope to expend in a hundred life times. They suffer because of their weakness, and their passivity. They don’t have to put up with this sort of life, but they do- and that is the most beautiful thing about it all. The pathetic reality of most human beings is such that in a way the oppressive nature of the structure is almost justified. You see?” Marc sat silent for a moment, his friend’s disposition left him somewhat disturbed.

“What are you suggesting?"

“Nothing. No- I would not want to see the institutional roles of power torn down, nor would I take the stripping of my own wealth lightly. But, that doesn’t mean I’ll bastardize truth like so many of my more insecure social equals, I have no need to spare myself the possibility of guilt, that is a burden I simply refuse to bear.” Stephens nodded, this was the Michael he knew. As they continued the purpose of their being chauffeured around the city became clear to the Atrevier, the Magistrate was to be speaking at a dinner, a dinner which he had neither interest in, nor intention of attending. As the vehicle pulled to a stop at the next light, the prince noted the familiar landmarks of the street. Proceeding at the pre-determined moment he unlocked the door and stepped out into the cool night air. Waiting within view was his own double, a man simply known as Sirus. Once a candidate for the seraphim, when they found the workable resemblance between himself and the Prince he had been instead offered the role as Michael’s personal security operative. He had since been struck from any known record and in the practical sense had ceased to exist. “Don’t tell Thomas.” Atrevier called as he shut the door to the car, Sirus within. Having expected as much Marc noted the request and said nothing.

Walking along the empty sidewalk Michael adjusted the collar of the coat popping it up to provide some measure of security against the wind and unwelcome acknowledgements of his identity. The street was located somewhere between the Financial and Political sectors of the city, one among many interlinking the residences of many of the city’s urban middle and upper class. Turning the corner into a darkened ally he heard the subtle vibration of his destination. Making his way down a flight of steps he found himself standing outside of sealed metal door. Removing his gray fedora, with a single thumb he buzzed the door. Almost an act of defiance against the disruption an eye level slot slid open revealing a pair of piercing brown eyes. As a look a recognition washed over the eyes, the slot slid shut and the door soon after swung open revealing an intimidating bouncer. “Welcome back Mr. Blake.” Alexander Blake, a name he had chosen to categorize this portion of his life, he suspected they all knew who he was, but they respected his reputation enough to pretend otherwise. Beginning a year ago he had begun to study the Pacifican Underworld, an intricate business network of technically illegal activity as diverse and arguably as large as the legitimate open markets of the nation. The nexus of which was a sort of postmodern café society, a core group of decentralized individuals which associated only in the public setting of the underground and never outside of it.

This particular club, one of the smaller of the core, was dominated by the minimalist aesthetic. Designed to give the occupants the distinct sense of being underground, the walls were constructed of smooth concrete, and lighting was created by the diffusing of powerful red halogen lamps through reflection. The atmosphere was set by the overpowering sense of motion, a sense constructed of the powerful and pensively isolating presence of house music , and the self assumed dignity each individual had come to ascribe to themselves. The club was organized on two levels, a spacious upper level which was darker, and a narrow lower level which included a bar and was itself the focal point of the crimson glow’s emanation. Glancing down at his own highly priced wrist watch he noted that his prospective client was late. Releasing a sigh of unregistered disappointment, Atrevier took at seat at one of the upper level’s many unoccupied tables. He considered his own punctuality simply a matter of pride, a validation of his own self discipline, though he knew he couldn’t expect such standards from everyone he associated with. Removing his palm tablet, a small wirelessly connected device operating under touch screen protocols, he struck the meeting from his own appointment book, and proceeded to review his financial portfolio. Having always possessed a sort of analytical gift, he was regarded by most of his colleagues and teachers as a sort of math prodigy, though his abilities were by no means limited to the realm of numbers alone. He had wisely decided once he had acquired his own source of income, that he would begin investing it. Initially his study of the markets themselves possessed more of a long-term outlook however as he became more knowledgeable of financial practices he discovered the lucrative nature of rapid day trading and asset speculation- he also discovered that he was himself quite naturally good at devising strategy within this area of trade. While his own schedule didn’t allow for him to engage in full time financial gamesmanship, he did have appearances to maintain, he periodically entered the markets for weeks at a time, carrying out ruthlessly aggressive financial campaigns with calculated precision. In such stretches of time he would go through his own daily routine with a sort of detached air about him; he would nod and casually respond to friends as they engaged him, effortlessly fly through school work, and examinations without having to fully apply himself, and keep up the façade of interest in the trifling affairs of his own immediate family and friends, all the while carrying out the tasks normally handled by teams of accountants and financial specialists. He could clearly remember instances of his waking morning hours as he trudged though the rigidly formalized preparations for the day, all the while analyzing constantly the raw market data he had memorized the day before and simultaneously running hundreds of rough simulations and projections, testing theories and adjusting strategy. He’d spend hours of time separated from those who knew him as Michael Atrevier, taking on an appearance of a recluse which rivaled that of the King; constantly making hundreds of trades and communicating with his contacts within Pacifica’s financial sector. It was not need that drove him, it was simply the thrill of his own ability, the magic of finance, and the level of respect he could command among his competitors because of it. He remembered his first big trade, an unprecedented shorting of several key currencies, all of which no one else had expected to drop in value. On that maneuver alone he could have lived comfortably the rest of his life. Among some circles he was simply known as ‘the wizard’, and by age nineteen his reputation had already won him visits from half a dozen investment banks. In his perspective he had by virtue of his own social position, the luxury of disappointing them, that is to say he wasn’t interested. While he loved the game, he couldn’t accept the subtext that accepting employment in one of Pacifica’s major Investment banks would imply, that he would have to take his trading seriously, that he had to be accountable. No he though, he was not interested in that. It wasn’t about survival, it was simply about the experience, the sensation of a scheme coming to fruition, the ecstasy of holding total mastery over any given area, be it a subject of study, or a group of people. It was this drive for dominance, and novelty that defined such endeavors and no doubt was the underlying motive of his meeting that night.

Tardy by his standards his prospective client, Sophia Morgan stepped into view. She had chosen for that night an all too formal white black-pinstripe skirt-suit accented by a black beret and the reflective surface of her oversized sunglasses; to Atreiver it seemed that she had tailored her selection to the location, as each piece worked to enhance the defining lines of her figure, in the crimson silhouette created by the bar below. Her pace reflected upon her own attitude, expressing an inner defiance, a refusal to placate the target of her attention. Her approaching walk and manner had a sort of mocking subtext, one which Atrevier had inferred upon from the beginning. It was not an air set forward out of malice, merely breeding, as Morgan was itself a name of illustrious reputation. Though she knew the origins of the man she was meeting, she understood that for their purposes, he was neither a prince, nor anyone of legitimate consequence. Choosing to instead indulge her ego, she assumed her perceivable social superiority. Inwardly smiling that his own identity had evoked such a vulgar act of pride, Atrevier said nothing forcing her to instead recognize her own dependency upon him. Neither rising nor extending the invitation Atrevier merely returned her gaze. Swallowing her pride she at she introduced herself.
“Mr- Blake.” She spoke extending her hand. At that moment he was still reclined in his own seat, tablet in hand. Stoically his gaze followed the curve of her arm from her outstretched hand to the feigned warmth of her eyes. The gesture calculated to draw out this moment, to inflict a self imposed shame upon her, to demonstrate how little he really needed or cared about her. With that moment of pause he accepted her introduction. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise- please.” He offered her the seat across from him. Taking the message she adjusted her manner, and gracefully conceded. Returning to the comfort of his previously relaxed position, Atrevier resumed interest in his tablet, scanning it for only an instant before restoring it to his inner coat pocket. With a renewed sense of concern he answered the silence between them, “Drinks?” She nodded, her face betraying an inner insecurity. With the lift of his hand one of the club’s attendants approached. Looking the waiter in the eye, his voice even in irrelevant matters such as this, commanded authority, “A chilled Absinthe prepared through the French method, and she’ll have?”

“A Merlot, preferably year one, anything French, you all can make the selection.” The waiter nodded and departed, leaving them to their own affairs. Slightly raising his own brow, a gesture she didn’t seem to notice, Atrevier wondered to himself whether the selection had been directed at him- year one, the year the plebiscite was held and the Atrevier line was formally aggrandized in the vestments of the crown. Returning to the immediate affairs he continued to study his guest. She seemed somewhat distant, staring off at another couple seated behind him. He could tell at this point that he had won the opening struggle of wills. He made the decision to reconcile with her.

“So- I assume you had James arrange this meeting with a business proposition in mind?” She nodded.

“Yes- I have a security concern.” Michael nodded, he had heard the stale yet one-sidedly novel line too many times. “I’ll spare you the details of why he is a concern- his name is, Andrew Mier, he’s an executive in my family’s firm. He owns a condo in the financial sector. I complied his background and all relevant information.” She explained removing a file from her hand bag, “paper as you requested.” He accepted the file and quickly surveyed its contents.

“Hmm…”, address, education, security: remaining silent he scanned these. Until at last he concluded, “ it’s do-able.” Closing the file he looked at her. “Security in the core districts is fairly tight, and it will reflect in the cost.”

“I am aware of this.”

“Then it will cost 250,000 Credits, paid within two payments one up front and one upon completion. Both will run through a public relations and marketing consultancy firm established in my name, Alexander Blake. You will document and host two meetings at your family firm. Documentation must be noted in both your accounting records, and your own personal appointment books. Those are my terms- and they are, nonnegotiable.” The smooth equivocation to the implied deed rolled from his lips and were met with a slight pause in Morgan’s manner. The option loomed in her mind as if she were standing at the banks of a Rubicon she had only now discovered. The moral question of the act had never phased her before, she had to that point felt resolved, hardened, resolute in the rationality of her position and the superiority of her own preference. Recovering she nodded.

“I will make the arrangements.” She said at last, but she only received a cursory smile of approval from Atrevier. This conclusion had come as their respective drinks had arrived. Placing each drink before them the waiter receded from their sphere, the glowing maroon of a fifty three year old wine, and the exotic promise of the absinthe the only sign that he was ever present. Lifting the perspiring stemmed glass from the table, Michael sipped the clouded green mixture allowing its cold heat to coat the inside of his throat. As it passed, it left behind its bitter sweet taste of anise, and the lingering memories of such meetings. Inwardly he savored the feeling.

“They say-“ he spoke, “that this drink brings clarity to the mind. Some say it even attunes oneself to the mystic forces of this world.” He held the glass, cupping its chalice in his palm, and stabilizing its stem between his middle and ring finger; he gazed into its hazed contents, admiring its contradiction: that clarity could come from something inherently obscure, that a poison could enhance life, that murder could be reduced to art. In that moment he loved life. Considering the folder before him, he wondered who had made such a sheath, or produced its paper, he considered what chain of events and reasoning had led to Sophia Morgan’s decision to seek such a final solution. He considered Ortize’s own actions, he considered the moment of his own birth, the bourgeoisies motivations of his pseudo-aristocratic parents. He was the progeny of history, it had been decided, no it had simply always been- he was going to kill Andrew Mier.

OOC: Doing roughly a 50 year jump in time to account for A the insane amount of damage to my nation, and B to jump forward two generations with my characters. All of my technological stuff/building has been settled, so the only thing this effects are my characters.

Edited March 2, 2010 by iamthey

[iamthey]

He wasn’t sure when it had come to him- perhaps it had been through the eye of a hand scope as he observed Mier’s daily walk through the Wellington central park- perhaps it had been when he had spoken to the man’s sister, posing over the phone as a potential client. Nonetheless the intoxicating sensation of the entire thought dominated his mind, to be in control, a predator stalking its prey. It had not taken long to find what he was looking for, a reason, a reason why the Morgan’s would want this man dead.

The Morgan’s as a family controlled one of the largest and most lucrative chemical & pharmaceutical interests in the region. They had also through state indulgence been granted a royal charter and thus became one of a handful of national monopolies. From what he could deduce it seemed the corporation itself was engaged in one form of illegal activity or another. The suspicion had arisen first when he had examined the sealed report of the state auditor. The company’s growth had been consistently high, even in poor economic years. Sometimes there would be increases in the margins of particular divisions which didn’t correlate to any particular investment, or were actually counter intuitive due to respective losses in production capacity. Needless to say, it was a mess, too complex for anyone to really figure out, but enough for him to see that something was going on. Examining the air traffic he noticed an unusually high volume to flights to countries which were generally understood to be centers of illicit trade, he suspected drugs. As it turned out it was not freight at all, but people, mostly executives. Though it did no public business with these states, for some reason, their intrinsic quality had merited visits from the company’s numerous directors, among them their chief accountant, Andrew Mier. He was acquainted with many of the drug traffickers in the Pacifican Underworld, and he had killed men like this before. He knew how the detectives would process the scene, where they would look, how a man like this would conceal his secrets. Sophia had provided him most everything he needed, phone numbers, addresses, identification numbers, and from there he found the rest. Within a week he had asked his assistant James Krueger to pose as the man and deposit fifty thousand credits as well as a ledger in the man’s personal safety deposit box. The ledger generated on his home computer vaguely linked him to a particular drug outfit operating out of indo-china. In a second box created by Atrevier and only loosely connected to Mier, Krueger deposited a series of personal letters and memos designed to paint the picture of the fictional relationship between the accountant and his unseen handlers, the insurance policy of a scared man. Around his home, car and office bits of evidence be it wadded up notes, traces of various pharmaceutical cocktails , or a few well hidden bricks of cocaine were left for the benefit of their intended audience, the investigatory sweep that would occur when they found his body. They even left a series of staged incriminated voice messages and files on his answering machine and computer, which they sloppily erased when they planted the rest of the frame. Michael could only feel what he understood to be pride, the subject of his study was caught in a web he had yet to become aware of. It was only a matter of time.

It was this intrigue that was on his mind, as his pearl white luxury sedan pulled into one of the open spaces in front of his favorite café. Home of the naïve and young, his friends from school generally took the occasion of the Sunday morning to congregate there for drinks and discussion. Putting the automobile into park he stretched his neck, leaning back into the light alligator skin seat. Resting for a moment, he composed himself for the event before him. Clearing his mind he removed the reflective aviator sunglasses from his face, depositing them in one of the available cup holders. Shutting off the car he stepped out into the temperate atmosphere of a typical Wellington morning. He approached the group, they were caricatures emaciated, to arrogant to care about how they looked, and too idealistic to understand their own pride: that was fine though, he enjoyed their company nonetheless. Taking his seat among them they were already deep into a discussion the current economic state.

The eldest among them, a vaguely bearded student twenty five years of age, already working on his masters was currently the active speaker. From what Michael could infer, the guy had been speaking for sometime, and felt he had a point to make. “Last year was nothing short of a record setting depression, what has Devereaux really done to alleviate the indigent? If there were any real ballot choice I would have just thrown out his nationalist party altogether.”

“Yes, but there isn’t any real choice- the conservatives are a joke, it’s either the nationalists or them.” A younger voice replied.

“It wasn’t always that way- one year there was a socialist party, but the nationalists still won a majority in parliament.”

“Eh, they weren’t a real choice either. Problem is this government isn’t leading anyone anywhere, its just reacting.”

“There is no program.” The group mildly agreed. Michael interjected.

“I will agree with you on that- the king is a recluse and serves no value as a leader, Devereaux while an experienced executive no doubt- is not much of a leader himself; when he speaks it is through one of his political mouth pieces, when he acts it is behind the shield of equivocation. The party program of centrism is good, but it has allowed the fact that it is moderate to cloud the substance of what being a centrist is about”.

“Well I’m glad to see that there’s at least one honest member of the Atrevier line, I don’t know what we’d do without you Mike.” Atrevier grinned laughing inwardly to himself.

“Self deception is the only unpardonable sin- it reduces you. Man is a heroic figure, or it can be anyway. An individual can be born into the most filthy third world slum on the planet and rise to lead a revolution. A deaf man can compose the most beautiful poetic symphony in history, a guerilla can become a King. The only thing that stops this transcendence, that blocks the fruits of such divinity are the lies we are bred to believe: the lies we cling to and defend. The world is one of struggle, not between any good or evil, these are merely labels indicative of an outdated and guilt ridden past, but between the weak and the strong. This struggle is at the root of every war, every assassination and every Sunday morning café discussion, this is how our world functions; to deny that most cynical truth is deceive yourself. And so- the King despite his heroic background, has degraded himself; Devereaux though he is a man of talent and ability refuses to lead. These are facts of our world.” The group accepted what had been said, though Michael doubted any of them understood its implications. There was only one exception, the original speaker.

“And what about my rights?” Atrevier cocked his head maintaining an expression of indifference.

“Your rights?”

“My rights as a human, my right to live, to speak, to trial.” Michael nodded slowly.

“Imagine if, the five of us took a day to select a particular condition such as… to have prefect teeth. We agreed this was a universal right of man- arbitrarily of course. We then set about to raise an army to impose the human dental right upon a given area where dental professionals work. Successful in this endeavor, we took this mission a step further to indoctrinate the people we came into contact with- to convince them of their universal right to dental care. When this viewpoint was held by almost the entire population the result would be the existence of a new right, one which began undoubtedly as simple fiction, and only through a successful campaign transcended to its presently deified state. Your rights, as you consider them, are themselves little more than elaborate fiction and your faith in them is self deception. Now- I will admit I prefer when there is a freedom to speak, but that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize that this freedom is itself only a reality because the existing power structure deems it so.” Before the older student could give a coherent reply the youngest changed the subject.

“Speaking of Freedom of Speech, have any of you heard any more about eh, the disappearances?” They shook their heads, Michael’s was the only lie. “Apparently, there have been reports of political activists, eh academics, and others being abducted at night by state officers.” The group looked at Michael.

“Well… there is only one organization in the country that does political police work, and that is the Seraphim. All of them have been recalled though and are participating in war exercises with the Kingdom of Cochin. I am also not aware of any new program or active work on their part since the dragon cult- so I suspect that it is just a rumor.” They accepted the explanation, but it wasn’t the truth.

Edited March 22, 2010 by iamthey

[iamthey]

In accordance with the demands of Andrew Mier’s schedule he arrived home at 2200 hours, his intent was to immediately rest after an unusually extended day of work. It was between this window of time, the period between exiting the automobile belonging to the Morgan’s Corporate motor pool, and entering the confines of his home that he was grabbed. As a general rule Atrevier rarely utilized his status as the Crown Prince to aid in his darker projects, but in this case he made an exception. He had done frame jobs before, but this time he realized he wanted something more. It was no longer enough for the rest of the world to believe the guilt of this man, he himself must be made to believe it. Facility thirty one was a now abandoned property of the central government, an underground holding installation roughly fifteen feet below the surface and partially exposed on its northern face. It was not noted on any map, nor was it referenced in any governmental ledger, this was where the team Michael had sent took the man. He arrived, drugged, hooded and bound; carried by two of the most fanatically loyal members of Michael’s seraphim guard. Atrevier observed Mier as he was laid across the table in the center of the primary interrogation cell, the bonds removed though he remained unconscious. In his hands Michael held the last vestige of textual evidence that Andrew Mier, the man existed. Noting that his own state of celebrity might make him identifiable, Michael stared down at the smooth white face, the theatrical mask of indiffrence he would hide behind. Pulling a black veil over his head, he lifted the mask staring into its hollow eyes. Inhaling deeply he donned it, and in doing so extinguished the remnants of his own conscience and relieved himself of any sense of shame.

He entered the cell, his subject had been stripped of his original clothes left only with a gray set of athletic shorts and a white tee-shirt, both belonging to him. From the inside pocket of his dress jacket Atrevier produced an ammonia tab, holding it to the nose of the unconscious Mier he broke it. The reaction was immediate and violent; Mier coughed gagging on the bitter base scent. Eyes wide, the man stared into the empty voids of their counterparts, and a look of fear spread across his face. Emerging from the shadow’s along the edge of the cell, two Seraphim both similarly shrouded behind black military coveralls and concealing hoods took hold of the man and forced him into one of the two metal chairs arranged around the table opposite of one another. Staring down at him, Michael awaited a response as the two soldiers retreated to their previous state of invisibility. Recovering from his previous state of shock, Mier at last asked, “Where am I?” Michael didn’t answer. “Who are you?” Nothing. “What do you want from me?” Still nothing. “Answer me!” Mier at last said, his frustration and fear obvious. Michael rotated his head slightly studying the man’s emotions. At last he replied.

“You are Andrew Mier, and I do not exist, this room does not exist, and tomorrow when you wake up this night will have never happened. Do you understand?” Mier gave him a look of incredulity.

“Are you insane?”

“Possibly.”

“What?”

“No more questions.” With a brief hand signal one of the guards emerged from the darkness holding a small case. Taking the case Michael set it on the table turning it so that only he could see its contents. Popping its latches he looked upon what it contained; on the one side was an interrogation set, on the other an extensive first aid kit, the irony. Removing a syringe from the case he took a small vial of a potent paralytic; judging the man’s weight he withdrew an appropriate dose before replacing the vial to its original position. Slowly he circled Mier, “I want you- to understand, that you have no control in this situation. There is nothing you can do, and there is nothing I want that you can will yourself to do.” Now standing directly behind him Michael took hold of the man’s head and slowly pressed the needle into a space along his spinal column. In less than a second he had injected the paralytic into Mier’s central nervous system and withdrawn the needle. “You are helpless.” He slowly placed the spent needle on the table before him. Returning to the case he now withdrew a razor sharp surgical scalpel, and returned to Mier’s side now half sitting long the edge of the table. Taking hold of the man’s arm he could feel the psychological tension of the moment, the terror in the mind of his subject. Taking the scalpel he slowly lowered it until it rested along the inside surface of the victim’s upper arm. Applying minor pressure he allowed it to trace a line across the flesh, crossing the brachial artery. Almost immediately he watched the blood flow from the hole he had created, and the visceral fear of the man as he felt the abundance of his life force slip away. Holding the man’s chin in his palm Atrevier rotated it to focus on the wound and the growing pool of blood beneath him. Pausing for only a moment Michael swiftly removed a small aid strip from his inner jacket pocket. Removing its adhesive he pressed it over the wound allowing its synthetic tissue and stem cell layer to seal and repair the damage he had done. “In a couple of hours the strip will slough off with a bit of abrasion, there will be no sign or scarring.” Atrevier then removed a new device from the case, an object that appeared to be a small plastic strip with a connected strap. Taking the man’s other arm he strapped the device along its upper portion ensuring the small plastic box sat just above its respective artery. He then removed a small remote from his pocket and stood next to him he holding it before Mier. “At any moment I could press this and end your life in just the same manner. In the other room there is a single crematorium, my guards could take your body there and be disposed of you by day break. There would not be a trace of you left, and there would be no evidence to lead investigators here.” Without further comment he returned to his seat and left the remote resting on the tabletop. Pushing the interrogation kit off to the left side he now pulled forward the file he had entered with. “You are a good man Andrew, unfortunately that reality just can’t satisfy the necessity of the situation. No one would believe that a good man, like you, could or would be killed by some south Asian drug cartel. No one would believe that you would hide drugs in your apartment, have 50,000 credits of undeclared income in your safety deposit box, or be running an off the books accounting operation.” He paused. “Which is why, tonight our little project here is to ensure that when you awaken tomorrow, you will no longer be a good man.” Standing up he opened the thick folder in front of him. “For all intents and purposes, this is you. Your picture, your general information, your birth certificate, your citizenship, your bank records… everything.” He closed the folder and lifted it from the table. Turning to one of the walls he opened a small chute and placed the folder within. It only fell for a moment before the orange glow of the incinerator below signaled its consumption. Signing to the shadows once more, a masked soldier stepped forward needle in hand, with the dexterous rapidity of a medical professional he plunged the hypodermic into the jugular of the paralyzed subject, flooding his system with a non-specific substance. “Have you ever suspected something, something your entire rational mind screams to deny but some primitive remnant of your evolutionary past can’t refuse. That is this moment. Courtesy of imperial wellington for the next three to four hours I am going to be virtually infallible.” Reaching into his case once more, he removed an externally identical folder which he slowly placed on the desk before Mier. “This is going to be difficult for you to accept, but I need you to trust me. You are sick Andrew, you suffer from a particular form of insanity. You remember things which did not happen, you see things that are not there, you think you are someone you are not. But you should not worry any longer, tomorrow this entire ordeal will be past you, there will be no more doubt. You will be free. Andrew, it is time for you to meet the real you.”

[iamthey]

Mier awoke dazed, dizzy; the piercing rays of the bright sun streaming through the transparent panes of the tinted glass filling the windows of his condo. Sitting up in his bed, he took note that he had forgotten to close his curtains, something he customarily did, he thought. [i]Must have been the escape-[/i] the line of thought sliced through his stream of conscious. Escape, one of the premier designer drugs that circulated throughout Pacifica, a potent hallucinogen it separated the experience of the user from the world around him, took them anywhere their subconscious dictated and was physically non-addictive with a controllable period of effect. Looking around he saw a couple of the spent vaporizers resting on his bedside table. Lifting one it felt- unfamiliar. Setting it down he exchanged it for his watch. The time it read sent a surge of alarm throughout him. He was unsure of its origin, but he knew now that he now had to move rapidly. With a haste that denoted a personal insecurity he threw on his formal business attire before proceeding to his walk in pantry. Taking a knife he began to carved hole out of the wall board. Bit by bit the steel brief case he had placed there a week ago took form. Dropping the knife he began to rip into the wall with his hands until he could extract the case. Placing it on top of his own granite countertop he popped the latches and slowly opened the case. Peering down he saw the two thick bricks of refined escape. In his gut he felt an urge, his brow was wet with sweat, his palms slimy with the residue of plaster and saline. [i]No-[/i], he wouldn’t. Anger apparent in the motion he heavily shut the case and focused on the task before him. Exiting the condo he took the lift to the basement level garage and briskly traversed the span between the elevator door and the car belonging to his employer. Placing the case in the back he hit the car’s ignition and relaxed into the black leather seat allowing his mind to clear. Opening his eyes he saw before him the silhouette of man. He blinked, and the figure was gone. Squinting he rubbed his eyes, and pulled away from the parking spot. Exiting the garage he headed for the financial district. He had to meet his contact. Speeding through the nearly empty streets he made time pulling up to the appropriate building. Grabbing the case he left his car unlocked rushing to the lift within the garage. From the corner of his eye he again saw movement, disregarding it he stepped into the lift and for a moment stared blankly at the buttons on the control panel. Almost a reflex he hit the button for the fifth floor, he wasn’t sure why it was the floor, but it didn’t matter. As the elevator pressed upward its lights flickered, dimming gradually as the chamber accelerated. Grinding to a sudden halt its doors parted revealing an empty lobby, looking up at the reading it read “-“. Stepping out he entered the antechamber. The room was well lit, and had an air of sterility. Before him he found himself face to face with a door, one that seemed almost familiar but which didn’t register, as if it were from a dream he had long forgotten. Stepping towards it he slowly turned the knob. Opening it he stood at the threshold of a cleared hall. Walking through he pressed onward into it. Looking at each door that lined the passage he found that each was unmarked. [i]Where am I…[/i], he thought to himself. At last he came to a door marked “E”, slowly he turned it to find the figure of a man before him. For a moment he thought it was another human, though soon he realized it was in fact a cut out. Looking at the rest of the room he saw a card table surrounded by fold out seating. Around it sat several mannequins arranged as if they were conducting business, before them was a brief case. His heart rate quickened. Stepping closer he examined the group, until he came within reach of the brief case. Slowly he popped its latches opening it and within he found a mirror set into its ceiling. At this, his eyes widened, a region he found was outlined and filled in and in red the mirror stated ‘behindyou’, within that region was the door from which he had come, and in that was the man he had seen earlier. At first it didn’t register, he heard a small pop, and soon looked down to find his palm was stained with blood. He turned and before him was a young man. Gun in hand he approached until he was within a few feet of his victim. “You only have a few minutes Andrew; it pierced your colon.” Mier fell back onto the table, he looked to the door. “You won’t remember how you got here, and it would be too late anyway, you forgot your cell phone as well- you were too rushed.” He his heart sunk, he knew this was true, he instead turned his focus to the man before him. The face he didn’t recognize, though he thought he should. After a moment the figure relaxed lowering the gun to his side. “You know it’s a bloody waste, Mier. I was looking at your work the other day, you are a fairly talented accountant and financial analyst. You just broke the greatest rule- you knew too much.” He sighed, “I haven’t really grasped a full view of what it was your employer was doing, but I can begin to understand her choice, I am sure you can too as well. Anyway, it’s irrelevant now.” Mier made the grunts of a failed utterance. “No, don’t bother with that.” Michael paused. “Look I’ll tell you a secret, don’t worry about it- death that is. You’ll go wherever you think you are going. Besides, you’re actually fairly lucky; some spend the last decade of their existence withering away and evacuating on themselves, you get to perish in your perfect youth. If that’s any consolation.” For the next few minutes there was silence between them, as if there was a sentiment of unexpressed regret; not one born of guilt, but lost opportunity. At last Michael backed away and took one last look at Mier. Slowly he lifted his pistol and, with a final shot he gave him the Mercy he deserved.